The all-inclusive holiday is back with a vengeance. Why have we abandoned our adventurous spirit for all-you-can-eat buffets and bright-green cocktails?

Seventy-seven, siebenundsiebzig, soixante-dix sept, seventy-seven,”
calls the compere as I consider my guacamayo-I-think-it-was-called, and the
German woman on the table next to mine’s head lolls. The guacamayo is green
with purple crust. It is a cocktail, not a tropical disease.

“Ten, zehn, dix, ten,” calls the compere, as the woman adjusts
her sunburnt flesh more deeply into the wicker-style chair. She is
succumbing to the effects of her own somniferous cocktail: a whole day on
the sun lounger plus a whole day of free booze plus one endless game of
pool-side bingo. The compere has called 73 of the possible 100 numbers to no
avail. It is the package-holiday equivalent of counting sheep.

“Twenty nine, neunundzwanzig, vingt-neuf, twenty-nine.” The
compere’s assistant, the girl from the kids’ club, screams and starts
spraying insect repellent wildly over her ankles. It is the most exciting
thing to happen all day. “One, eins, u